Ireland in five pints

When you go to Ireland, everyone bids you adieu with the same benediction: "Enjoy the Guinness."

When you go to Ireland, everyone bids you adieu with the same benediction: "Enjoy the Guinness."

Fat chance, I thought. Don't these people know that frothy, thick brew tastes like tree sap and inflates to unnatural proportions in one's stomach, like breadcrumbs in a duck's belly?

But on my first Irish evening, seated at a cozy pub in Derry, Northern Ireland, with a small clutch of musicians beating out traditional songs in the corner and a dozen patrons with barnacle-like attachment to their bar stool stoically downing pints of "The Goodness" -- well, I thought, when in Ireland.

One pint led to another, and soon I was slurping off the frothy top like whipped cream off a hot chocolate (a habit most likely frowned upon by locals, or anyone with table manners).

But though I learned to enjoy Ireland's famous "black gold," it was the pubs that I really fell in love with: pubs with fireplaces, pubs with pianos, pubs with knitters, pubs with flautists. Pubs with East Enders on the big screen; pubs with football fans living and dying with every onscreen kick. Each a little town in and of itself, its square a perfect place to people-watch and discuss adventures had and still to come, its ruling gentry artfully pouring pints behind a well-scuffed bar.

If you're drawn by the lure of a frothy pint, cheerful fire and barstool banter, check out the craic at these friendly little pubs.

1. Ballintoy, Northern Ireland, Co. Antrim

Duncan and I arrived at our hostel in Ballintoy, a picturesque tidy village ringed with fields of sheep, just in time for a golden sunset. That night, eyes sagging closed, we lingered by the fireplace in one of the two local pubs -- it's name has slipped my mind, but rest assured it's easy to find in a village of 160. Its tables were empty, the party crowd having long ago trotted across the street for the trad session at the Fullerton Arms.

It had been a long day.

It wasn't yet 8 a.m. when we climbed onto a public bus packed with kids destined for an elementary school in Bushmills. While they pulled hair and trash-talked, we nursed heavy bags and coffee headaches. But no amount of pre-teen chaos could ruin the morning, a warm sun melting away the fall dew, the emerald fields scarved in mist.

The driver dropped us, abruptly, at the side of an empty road. In front of us, the bright fields rolled away, dropping off in steep cliffs. Behind us, the patchwork green rolled into the disappearing point.

Slinging on our backpacks, we set out on what would be an eight-hour hike along a portion of Northern Ireland's revered walk, the Causeway Coast Way. The swath of UNESCO-designated coastline begins with the basalt cliffs and columns for which it's famous -- giant stone matchsticks huddled together on the cliff-sides -- but tapers into a landscape of rolling farmland, limestone boulders, and the wide, sandy White Park Bay. Along the way are herds of sheep grazing perilously close to the cliffs, the creepy 16th century ruins of Dunseverick Castle, a one-room church that claims to be the smallest in Ireland and at Carrick-a-Rede Island, the end of the walk, a terrifying suspension bridge with crashing waves and brain-dashing rocks underneath.

On this day in September, the landscape was, incredibly, all but deserted, most visitors having called it a season before the infamously rainy fall.

2. Matt Molloy's, Westport, Co. Mayo

We arrived at the twee town of Westport after a white-knuckled hour on the Irish highways -- an experience made terrifying by the roundabouts (aah!), vague street signs (were we really supposed to drive across that field?), and, of course, the sheep (well, er, who wants mutton?).

But Westport is the kind of place that slows the pulse. Lush with overhanging trees and straddling a river, it's as picturesque as a town can be, and owing to its abundance of pubs and fine dining, it's a destination spot for out-of-towners on weekend getaways.

At the centre of it all is Matt Molloy's, a pub that counts Noel and Liam Gallagher and Jerry Garcia among its past patrons. On the night we dropped by, the namesake himself, a traditional Irish flute player with The Chieftains, occupied a seat at the bar. Decked out in Matt memorabilia, with scuffed floors and the happy pitch of good conversation, the cheer of this cramped little pub is infectious -- little wonder it has fans the world over. With that fame comes the tourists, however, who cluster around the nightly musicians with ever-running camcorders.

At the end of the night, most of the crowd already departed, Duncan and I watched as the flautist, harp player, accordion player and fiddler wrapped up a set of traditional songs. It ended abruptly when a pint was knocked to the floor. The song bumped to a halt, and the musicians gazed down at the seeping brew.

"Wasn't me," murmured the burly accordion player, a little guiltily.

3. Tig Cóilí, Galway, Co. Galway

It's common knowledge that the oyster does strange things to one's mind. But during the famous Galway International Oyster Festival, its mysterious crustaceous powers seem mainly to inspire residents and out-of-towners alike to fabulous feats of drunkenness.

Arriving in the beautiful, cobblestoned City of the Tribes halfway through our trip, Duncan and I were more interested in strolling along the wind-battered seaside Prom, poking around cluttered bookstores and munching fresh scones than joining the rambling crowds, dressed in their finest and raising pints to the oyster from noon until the wee hours.

That said, we couldn't resist joining the raucous celebrants for a pint at the cheerful, cherry-red Tig Cóilí bar. All was high spirits and oysterous celebration until a bald American patron, bobbing along to the traditional musicians, turned around and exclaimed one of the Top 3 things one never wants to hear in a packed bar: "I'm supposed to be in jail!"

There was little in the way of context offered -- nor did we ask for any. He then followed this up with "My brother's in three movies!" a comment that might have been interesting, were it not for the one directly preceding it.

4. Roadside Tavern, Lisdoonvarna, Co. Clare

Pulling in to the village of Lisdoonvarna, our bus driver shook an angry fist at the sheepish motorists trying to scuttle away from the village on its skinny roadways --barely wide enough for a single car, never mind the traffic jam trying to exit the hamlet after three weeks of its famous Matchmaking Festival.

There is a certain brand of desperation unique to the folks left behind in the final days of the month-long Lisdoonvarna love-in -- promoted as Europe's biggest singles event -- and the lovelorn tourists that rattled around the little town on the Sunday evening were doing their best to medicate broken hearts with pint after disappointed pint.

Having spent the afternoon rambling along the sunny splendour of The Burren, a dramatic tongue of glacier-scoured limestone running along the windy coast, Duncan and I settled in for a pint at the Roadside Tavern, a cheery little pub with dusty beer mugs and memorabilia cluttering every available surface.

It wasn't long before a strange series of events unfolded that nearly put us off our Irish stew. 1) A clutch of dolled-up, 50-something North Americans brought their gregarious party through the door. 2) They were soon followed by a stocky bear of a man, who sat down and commenced sharing a pint of pilsner with a toddler. 3) This sparked a spirited argument between groups 1) and 2). 4) Moments later, a weaving patron struck up a fistfight just outside the pub, and 5) in all the commotion, the North Americans stole a dusty signed photo from the wall and ran from the bar in a fit of giggles.

5. John Mulligan's, Dublin

Nestled in an anonymous street in the downtown core, John Mulligan's is the pub equivalent of Platform 9æ. Walk in the door and you're in a space fit for another time. Conversations are loud. Patrons drink pints in suits and ties. Bartenders bring up bottles from underground corridors and banter with the regulars.

It was this classy bar -- the traditional haunt of Dublin's newspaper types -- where we sipped our last Irish pint. Our trip ended with a two-day ramble through the city, visiting the Book of Kells, the magnificent Chester Beatty library and, of course, paying homage at the corporate shrine of Guinness in its popular (and pricey) brewery tour.

After catching a stunning play at the Ulster Bank Theatre Festival, we retreated to our new favourite pub. Spirits were high on the Friday night, but in the lady's washroom, one wobbly woman was in a less generous mood, screaming "I hate you!" into her cell phone, before hanging up.

When the phone rang again, she sighed deeply. "Gawd!" she said to me. "Can you just talk to him?" And with that, she hoisted the cell phone to my face, where I could see the call display -- "Dad," it said.

"Um, hello?" I said. Dad didn't answer.

"I think he hung up," I told her, before beating a hasty retreat back to my seat at the bar -- and raising a pint to the unpredictable world of the Irish pub.

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